Of the Morning
by romanov16
Summary: Sodapop Curtis' life has gone off on Roads he never imagined, when he was younger. And when his feet gets tried of walking, he welcomes a place that offers rest. However, maybe he'll find that all roads, sooner or later, leads back on home. Post Vietnam.
1. Chapter 1

O*T*M

* * *

"You wouldn't know, looking at him, that he'd been to Hell and back. He kept his scars tucked away beneath his clothes and behind his eyelids.  
Survivors often do."~ Angela Panayotopulos, The Wake-Up

* * *

Chapter I

* * *

It was just another American greyhound bus station, a crack pavement congregation sheltered just off of a dusty vein in the Heartland, pulsing slowly with the summer beat of small-town, white-picket-fence life. The red-gold light of Dawn bled through the black shaded leaves of the surrounding trees, shrouded with the faint chirp of birds.

For the umff-teenth time, Alice gingerly shifted her weight on the old suitcase pressed mercilessly against her tail-bone as a makeshift bench; trying hard to keep her movement and discomfort as motionless as possible...trying to make herself as small and unnoticeable as possible.

She was good at that, had tons of practice. She'd claimed her spot fast and earnestly, from the moment she fled her obligatory visit with her mother and her crazy sisters. Quickly seeing that all the ugly, hickory benches had been taken, she had plopped herself down in her lovely little corner with the twitchy discomfort of an ally cat, cornered in a room full of rocking chairs.

With the lack of anything to read or watch, and the quick boredom of watching the wind whisper through the leaves...Alice had taken to counting. Counting anything. The ticks on her watch, the number of people in the room. The number of males. The number of females. She watched the fellow 'members of mankind carefully; watched their faces, their ticks, their quirks, and wondered what was so bad with them, that they had to be here...observing doe green eyes hidden by the dark shadows of her hair, as it fell in curtains over her delicate collar-bones and heart-shaped face.

She watched the ones who had obvious troubles. And those who didn't.

Wasn't too many of those.

Well, almost no one. There was a man, not too much older than her oldest niece, who'd just survived sophomore year. He was a gorgeous young man, looking like he'd come down from the morning star itself, the hair on his head a soft spun gold, same color as her own baby boy, currently playing with her long hair, just as his sisters did, and she found herself hoping like this young man right here, her Joshua would keep the color.

She must've stared too long, cause that young man straightened in his seat, alertness replacing his contentment. Brown eyes met her own and embarrassed Alice broke the gaze and bruised herself once more with her son.

She breathed. Forcing herself to remain calm, still.

Wincing, she shifted again as more pain shot through her rump. Pressing her lips together, she was seriously contemplating taking off her grey sweater and using it as a cushion. Normally the Southern Belle would never consider it; but she was wearing a long sleeve blouse underneath and the leather and buckles were something of the dang Spanish Inquisition. It was a wonder the government hadn't invested in it.

The debate was still raging in her head...when a pair of combat boots and beaten jeans -placed on long, careless legs- suddenly leaned smoothly against the wall beside her with a boneless grace... with more familiarity than the rules of decency to allow. But somehow, his breech of them felt utterly allowable. And when the owner of said lanky legs spoke, the first word spoken for at least several minutes, Alice thought she'd be forgiven for jumping about a foot into the air.

"Y' comfortable down there, Ma'am?"

An Oakie-homa voice, she knew instantly -memories of Southwest filling her, likes the sounds of the rodeo and long ago days. Course, her memories were also filled with hunger and breadlines and dust blow bowls, but that was neither here or there.

Body jerking and her head shot up as if a gun had gone off, the first thing that met Alice's eyes from her place on the floor was the boy's -man?- tanned thumbs, hooked through the front two hoops of his jeans.

Raising upward, they moved pass the white t-shirt and army covering his lithe frame without lingering; only to met the lean, angular face that all girls back in her day were taught to stay far away from, though his brown eyes were kind behind his liquor-colored shades. So was his smile.

"Ah -what?" she fumbled, caught off guard at having been singled out.

This didn't seem to bother the young sir if the impish widening of his grin was anything to go by. A note of playfulness entered his demeanor while his tanned hands moved, smoothly resting in his pockets. His head tilted down to her, so that longish bangs of hair fell over his cheekbones. They arched over the red biker's cloth tied around his forehead like the mark of the beast. A little deer-hunterish...but he pulled it off.

"I asked if yo' comfortable down there Ma'am_,_" he repeated mildly. And that dang grin of his only grew more cheeky as she stared up at him, arms rearranging her child.

"I-oh-I'm fine, young man, good of you to ask," Alice finally managed, little ashamed she could have more to offer. Such a nice young man...

But she couldn't make herself feel bad about it, not when the home-state lips twitched with a chuckle before one wryly shoulder lifted in a lazy shrug.

"Honestly Ma'am ya look like your sittin' on a red hot poker," he observed lightly. And even behind the shades, there was a twinkle in his eye as he squatted down to her level, making himself at home, smiling at Joshua who watched him, fascinated. "I hurt just watchin' you, Ma'am."

"Well..." she stopped flustered. More so when the young man turned a handover.

"You and your boy care to take my seat, Ma'am?"

She sat up straighter, eyes blinking owlishly. "Oh no, I couldn't."

"Sure ya could," he grinned. And given that he had lifted Alice to her feet with one hand, the other taking her suitcase, she supposed the decision had already been made. And her sore bum sternly warned against any further attempt at protest.

"Thank you," she said, once she and her boy were settled in the place the young man had vacated for them. "This is very, very generous."

Her fellow Oakie gave a loose but polite shrug, "It's nothin' Ma'am, would've given it ta ya sooner, but I didn't see you."

As he talked, one hand seemed to reach out of habit to tug at the simple chain around his throat, leading to a silver pendant with an image. A saint's medallion, she recognized. This son of the Morning Star was Catholic. And given from the bullet shot dog-tag dangled beside it, he was just returned from Nam.

Curious.

Her eyes flicker to the chain for about five minutes before she couldn't hold the question no more.

"Which saint is that?" she asked softly, unable to stop herself from inquiring.

The young man's eyebrows lifted upward with the suddenness of the question, but nevertheless obliged her by holding it up for her to see, not minding how Joshua garbed at it.

"This be Saint Michael of the Morning, Ma'am_._ My patron saint."

Alice frowned. That wasn't a common saint, far as she knew. "I've never heard of 'im."

He smiled at her. "Sure ya have. He's also known as Saint Michael the Archangel. Ring any bells?"

"Oh!" Alice exclaimed, understanding now, and giving a nod. Then she frowned again. "I've never heard of him call 'of the morning'..."

"It's from an old prayer my Mama taught me," the young man explained easily. Far too easily -like he hadn't had anyone to talk to for a long green mile. "_Michael, Michael of the morning...Fresh chord of Heaven adorning. Keep me safe today, and in time of temptation, drive the devil away..."_

His voice got a little softer at that part, distant. His thumb rubbing the bullet hole tore through his tag. Most people wouldn't have noticed. Alice couldn't help but notice. She shifted Joshua.

"That's a very nice prayer," she complimented gently. "Sounds like your mother raised you right."

And for the first time, the young man's smiling countenance grew strained and his mouth pulled tighter. "She certainly did her best, Ma'am."

Her own gaze dropped to the grassy space between them, respecting whatever within that note, before hesitantly meeting his face again.

"What's your name, young man?"

And like she'd flipped on the stove, all that light was back. Though she wasn't prepared for the answer got.

"Sodapop Curtis Ma'am."

He said in a way and with a grin that expected disbelief. Or at the very least surprise. But that faded at the frozen shock that crossed her face.

"Sodapop Curtis..." she repeated. And he nodded affirmation, brows coming together.

"Yes Ma'am, surely am."

Her brain was whirling, trying to do the math. "And you are... twenty-one?"

He shook his head. "Twenty-two, Ma'am...why do ya ask?"

Alice didn't hear that part. "And your father...how old is he?"

That took him back, she could see it in how it took him a moment to word his answer, tone must more cautious. "He would've been forty-six Ma'am...why do you ask?"

Her mind was racing to fast to noticed the past tense he used. She was stunned.

"Oh my sweet Jesus."

Now young Sodapop Curtis was startin' to look rather worried, along with other people who'd begun to notice the commotion.

"Ma'am, you alright?" he asked her. "Ya need some water or somethin'?"

She was nearly crying now, hand to her mouth. "Oh no, no, son...I'm just amazed."

He nodded slowly. "I suppose it's not everyday you hear a name like that-"

"Oh but I do," Alice giggled, almost heady. She reached out and placed a hand on his arm. "Everyday. That why ya got to stop by home with me."

That widen his eyes and dropped his jaw a bit, though he quickly closed it. Though he scouted back, hands out. "Ma'am, I was only tryin' to do my good deed for the day."

"Huh?" she blinked then understood. "Oh, son, no. But I'd never forgive myself if I didn't take you to meet my husband."

Now he was staring openly, mind clear blank. "What interest could your husband have in me?"

Now Alice grinned fully through the shine of golden tears. "Cause _his_ name is Curtis. Sodapop Curtis. He got named so back in Germany by an American soldier, when he was a boy. I think he'd be most delighted to meet ya."

* * *

Review, please if you like.

Okay, this is my take on a post Vietnam Soda, how do you like it?


	2. Chapter 2

lulusgardenfli: glad you grabbed the bus pass, cause your gonna need it. It's one heck of a trip over land and soul. Hope you like where I take it.

Guest: Good to know! Ill try to keep it!

metacognitive: Love your work! Jaw dropped you said! Well, I hope it stays that way!

Alaster Boneman:Ha, nice to know!

* * *

Chapter II

* * *

Anyone who'd ever made a brief acquaintance of Sodapop Curtis would be so able to place his or her on the Bible, and testify before the throne of God Himself that this...this.._.slack-jawed_, road-kill look gracing his canny features, underneath a little-boy's eyes, was not the natural arrangement of his face.

Grins, and flashes of pearly teeth, a gleam in the eye of the eternal morning, the lingerings of jungle damnation he couldn't shake, but kept under control for humanity's sake...these were the features that those who knew him could claim him by. Heck, if Darry or Pony were to walk by just now, even they might wander pass without so much as a second glance, for the dumbfound man who couldn't find his-self a single word if his life deepened on it...

Save for one.

"What?"

It was the only one he had. The one he'd asked more than once, between the time of his parents' car accident and the advent of his majority; the best years of his left heralded by the thin slip of a draft noticed, and the smell napalm and gunshots in the morning.

"What?" he asked again, a little stronger now making it stronger, steadier. Because he had to be. And the woman for whom he'd tried to do today's Good Deed for flushed, and bit her lip, while her boy obliviously played with her gold necklace...that oddly enough, held both a cross and a Star of David (which didn't do much to help him stop feelin' like he was in the Twilight Zone any...).

"I'm sure it sounds unbelievable to you, young man," the woman hurried out in a rash, free hand out out as if psychically hold off any disbelief. Thing was...Soda did believe her. Because he could see it in the flash her eyes, of wheat gold hope, the same color as his hair.

"No, I believe ya," he assured the woman, quick and smooth, licking his lips, breathing in, steadying himself as she relaxed. "I...I can see your telling the truth...as ya know it..."

"There's only evah one kinda truth, son," the woman corrected softly, that hand coming closer now, but not touching him. Though he could see her fingers ache to take hold. "And if the truth I believe here is correct...I think ya the son of the man who save m' husband's life...and by extension m' children."

The pain that shot through his bones was like the silver bullet through a werewolf, purifying and damning all at once, that tie of flesh and severed blood not lessened by the distance of years, the passage of time.

...Anyone who'd ever made a brief acquaintance of Sodapop Curtis would be so able to place his or her on the Bible, and testify before the throne of God Himself that Soda was impulsive as a tumbleweed in the wind. That his mind was quicksilver that never hardened. While his heart, despite everything, was still trusted far above his brain.

And that truth showed itself in the wide, slow smile that spread 'cross his face, as his lanky self sprung up like a cornstalk, perfectly in time with the hiss of the greyhound that crawled to a stop before them, grabbing the woman's attention with a sort of desperation that he felt duty-bound to relieve.

"Well Ma'am," he noted mildly, as the bus doors swung open, waiting for them. "Supposed there's only one-way t' find out."

"Supposed there is," the woman agreed, beaming.

* * *

O*T*M

And that was how he wound up on the wrong bus, taking him North to mother-effing _Nabraska_ of all places, sitting with fake relaxation as he rode God's good humor to a middle of nowhere place he didn't know, to visit people he never met, with nothing but a stranger's word and his hope that it would turn out okay...

He breathed out. Wasn't nothin' he hadn't done before.

The only difference was that this time, it was _his_ choice.

Alice Curtis was nice enough to let him take the window seat, and more than willing to fill his ears with soft constant talk to fill in the gape between their truths and blend it into one.

"Soda..._my_ Soda, doesn't like to talk about it," she confessed, shuffling Joshua Curtis on her blue-clothed lap as he continued to giggle and squirm, fascinated by the happenings outside the window. "He-"

"Here, give 'im here," Soda coaxed her gently, already slipping the boy from his mother's lap to his own, holding him easily with one hand on the kid's waist as his small nose pressed against the glass.

"Thank you," Alice breathed in poorly disguised relief before her newly freed hands began to wrangle themselves, and she started where she left off.

"My Soda...he was a little boy in Poland when the War broke out...passing through German Camp after German Camp..." she bit her lip. "And...somewhere between the camps he...lost his name..."

That got his attention. "_Lost_ his name?"

"It's not as farfetched as you might think...they whittled him down to where only the absolute necessity of life stuck in his mind...and his given name didn't make the list. So Soda...my Soda...he let it go and it never came back. He doesn't remember his birth name. It's gone."

...There was once a time, before 'Nam, where he wouldn't have believed her, believed anybody could be brought to a place where they literally, honestly, didn't recall their own damn name.

But that had been then, and this was now, and Soda knew first had that such things weren't only possible, but actively probable. There been too many sweltering nights in Nam, where madness had walked to close to the shadows surrounding 'em, demanding sacrifice upon it's altered to retain some moderation of functionality. Some of the guys he was with chose to offer up their past, forgetting it had ever been to exist in the here and now. Others offered up their future and received reckless balls of steel in return.

And one or two had offered up their own names, refusing to share 'em, so back home they wouldn't carry any of their memories or sins. He rub his dog tag, the bullet hole marking what Soda had chosen to offer up, in order to get his ass back Stateside.

His mouth pulled -yeah, Stateside...but not home. He could never go home.

"I believe ya," he told her gravely and saw her shoulders slump with relief.

"Thank you..." she drawled softly, eyes soft like a benediction. And he nodded his head in acceptance.

* * *

O*T*M

The bus-load of them drove through the night, under a firmament of innumerable stars, draped over black-cloaked cornstalks, whispering as the wind from the bus passed 'em by, glistening in the drizzle. It was a gentle sort of rain, falling like kisses on the window, and turning into bullet drops of silvers, before bleeding downward in oozing ribbons of crimson over the seats, down from the roof, pouring over his face, bleeding from the wounds tore on his forehead where the mark of the beast still sat-

He jerked partially awake soundlessly, to the crash of thunder, and to the whimper from the small body trying to hide between himself and the child's mother. Still disoriented, Soda absently reached out a hand and ruffled it through the kid's hair and felt the child calm.

"S okay, Pony," he muttered, lost somewhere between past and present as he resettled himself and shut his eyes. He kept his hand firmly planted on the kid's head. That was probably the reason he didn't fall into a dream again.

* * *

O*T*M

The town of Hazard, Nebraska was small and rural; closely knitted by the patches of walking-distance homes and farms, that reminded Soda of the quilts patterns his mother would make, out of their old jackets and pajamas. It was a misty, silver spun morning, laced by a murky river; sprinkling itself with a lightening of gold as their bus pulled to a stop, and Soda pulled his own pack over his shoulder and also took hold of Alice's suitcase while she carried Joshua. Even as they made their way down the steps of the bus, something just under Soda's skin crawled with the sense of being watched. And he had a feeling he knew by whom.

As they cross over the dirt patch, the man who was obviously Alice Curtis' husband was waiting for them, a calm looking older guy, that still had hints of being handsome from his youth, with dark curly hair, thick eyebrows, green eyes behind rimmed glasses and a couple of scars for toughness, musing on a cancer stick with some thought or another.

The man's brow furrowed when he saw Soda heading his way over with his family, at least at first. But then he squinted, then stared, his smoke falling between his fingers in a golden spiral.

Alice took a breath like she was planning to go deep-sea diving, before stepping forward and placing a hand on her husband's shoulder, wetting her lips.

"H-honey...this is-"

"-You're Dare's son, aren't you," the man said frankly, softly, with a bit of lingering accent, but also the way Johnny Cade would speak, his voice the wind through the willow. And the use of Darrel Curtis' personal nickname -known only to his friends- disintegrated any remaining doubt that hadn't existed in Soda's mind, as the invaluable cord of connection tightened across wars and decades.

Soda nodded, holding out a hand.

"I am," he confirmed, trying for a verity of reasons to keep the shame from his voice. He flashed a distracting grin. "One of 'em anyhow...the best looking definitely."

Alice's husband let out a gasping sort of laugh, the kind you made when the joy you had inside was to great to either contain or let escape. The elder Sodapop Curtis promptly ignored his hand, and took Soda by the shoulders, staring into the brown morning rims that once belonged to a twenty-year-old soldier, in 1945.

Alice choked, her hand covering her mouth as tears of manna spilled messily down her face. But her husband just let out another laugh, shaking his head with wonder.

"If you are Dare's boy, then you are my nephew," the man stated, nodding as if this was on official papers. "You are my brother's son."

As he spoke, he lifted his arm to clasp Soda on the neck, the sleeve of his shirt rolled down, display an uneven tattooing of blue numbers across the skin, in about the worse ink-jobs Soda had seen. Which was saying something, as he'd seen some pretty lousy ones in the Marines. It didn't look like the kind anyone would get willingly, so he would be willing to bet strong money on the fact that it wasn't, and let it stay buried with all the things he wanted to hide; as his own mouth broke into the sort of smile he hadn't been sure it could make anymore.

Though it died a fast death at the next question. Died right in the pit of his stomach.

"How is Dare?" the man asked eagerly, damned near begged, in the manner Pony used to with him. Or Johnny did with Dally. And the way he used to with Darry. there was that same worshiped in this stranger's eyes. "How has life treated him?"

...Christ Jesus, what could he _say?_ As it turns out...there was nothing to be said or had to be. Because Soda's eyes must've said it. Said it all. Alice's husband went very still, mouth slightly open, the way people did when some basic fact of their world got ripped out from under their feet. But something flexible yet steely clawed its way into the man before him, something that was terribly used to acceptance.

"When?" he asked mildly, with a soft sort of dignity. "How?"

Soda let himself wet his lips, before blowing out air in an uneven breath.

"1965," he answered. "Car accident."

Alice's husband blinked hard, and took off his glasses, cleaned them on his shirt before breathing out in release.

"This is not the place for this sort of thing," he said finally. "Let's go home."

* * *

O*T*M

Once things cooled down a bit, and they'd all collected themselves, they piled into the lime green Cadillac; Alice and Soda together trying to explain the bends of fate that had tossed them all together, as they car cruised the winding roads.

"Unbelievable..." was all Alice's husband could say at the intervals, the thirty-eight year old shaking his head, eyes far and away. "My God...unbelievable."

"Took the words right out my mouth sir," Soda agreed, as he eyed the ranch house they were pulling up next too, atop a grassy hill with a bright brown roof, peeling white door, and tire swing dangling from an oak, fields of wheat swaying in the high afternoon. The exact sort of place he and Ponyboy always wanted to live, dreamed, and schemed of living in when they were little before the knew the score.

"Please...make yourself at home," Alice bustled once she had them inside, setting Joshua in his playpen and rushing to the kitchen. "I'm gonna get some soup on before Esther gets home..."

Soda cocked his head. "Esther?"

"Our tokhter...daughter," the older Curtis corrected himself. "She's ten years old. Dropped her off at school before I came to get Alice...and you..."

His eyes softened, and he gestured to the well-loved couch in the living room, draped in the sunshine of the front window. "If you don't mind-"

"No, sir, I don't," Soda assured him solemnly, having an idea of where this was going -though, admittedly, he cringed a little at the thought of letting his filthy self, both literally and otherwise, further into this home beyond the mud-room where men like him belonged. But this time, he'd allowed himself to cross the threshold, for the sake of the questions he could plainly see in need of answerin'.

That was how he found himself setting across this man, the one man in the whole U. S. of A. who shared his name. Two Sodapop Curtis, with a menagerie of broken and rebuilt dreams littered between them. Seen but unspoken.

Alice brought out a couple of beers, both that sat not only untouched but unseen, as the older man leaned gently across the space, tapping the table between them.

"Tell me about your father, son, and I'll do the same for you."

* * *

Review, please if you like.

Some questions have been answered, and yet more are too come. How do you like how I write Soda, in my version, the war in nam messed him up, but also made him -finally- grow up in some sense. Will see how in latter chapters.


	3. Chapter 3

metacognitive: Thank you so much for your review! I admit I changed the location to Nebraska, but I hope you still enjoy it! I love connecting history in stories.

Guest: Thanks, I hope the plot doesn't disappoint.

Guest: Ha! Yes, I do enjoy Sodapop a little too much.

Boris Yeltsin: yes I love the book as well!

* * *

Chapter III

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_April Twenty-Third, 1945, Bavaria, near the Checkoslovian border.   
_

_Something was wrong. So far past wrong. The first indication of it was the silence. There were no birds, no rustle of animals in the trees. Not even the buzz of flies that before had never seem to cease. The living had abandoned this place. He noticed. They all did. _

_"...I don't like this," Ed Randle grumbled again, for the umpteenth time, cigarette hanging from his growling mouth. He shook his lighter and cursed God when it failed to provide a flame._

_John Matthews cocked an eyebrow and produced a match for their surly buddy, well use to his temper after a winter in Bastogne together.  
_

_"There's a shock," he grinned. Ed glared. _

_"Don't tell me this place don't give ya the creeps," he challenged. And they couldn't say much to that. He was right...there was something just...wrong in the air. _

_Beside him, Joe Cade leaned back his helmet, quiet eyes scanning the upcoming scene before them skeptical-like. Then he tossed an uneasy look Dare's way.  
_

_He could only shrug; t__he granite quarries of Bavaria was an ugly scar on otherwise pristine skylines -they thought that long before the 90th infantry rolled up to a stone metal, cradled with the engraving: ARBEIT MACHT FREI._

_His brows arched, then furrowed. Work...Makes...Free? Maybe his Kraut wasn't as good as he thought. _

_"...Something's wrong 'ere," Joe muttered slowly, twitching, fumblingly with his medic bag, glancing around at barrack-like buildings. _

_His eyes looked. But they didn't see. No. No, that wasn't true. That wasn't the truth at all. His eyes saw alright. They simply refused to accept what they said was before him. Behind him. Scattered all around him in__ an elliptical circle. In such limp, flat bundles of striped cloth, Darrel 'Dare' Curtis first took them for merely_ being_ piles of clothes. _

_It was only after his boots moved him closer to one did the smell of death tell, whispered, wailed the truth -these piles were unhoused crypts of starved human flesh, rotting in the sun with bullet holes in their heads or necks. Eyes opened hopelessly in faces long made into skeletons.  
_

_And the smell...motherfuck the _smell_..._

_Randle's cigarette fell from his mouth in dying gold sparks, Mathews lost his smile. Joe went white as death-_

_Cause Death was here, it's sickle carved into the tender flesh of humanity in a way Dare, his pals, and the whole damn World had never, never seen. Dare looked back at the sign, 'cause now he understood it. It was a beacon, a pillar stretching high into Heaven above and deep into Hell below, the unwritten warning above the gate: _

_ ARBEIT MACHT FREI._  
_ Death is welcome here._

* * *

O*T*M

"So he was happy?" Mr. Pop -Alice's husband that is, what he preferred to call himself- asked softly, so softly. Like a bird flying free of its cage. "Dare was happy?"

"Absolutely sir," Soda enthused, mouth spreading in the wide, easy grin once so natural to him, eager to give this kind fellow peace men lived lifetimes wanting, waiting for. Someone ought to get it. He lifted his beer. "Dad was drunk on life, and never went sober...Mom, us kids..."

His mouth twitched, even as his eyes softened, wistful, in the Pepsi-cola haze of remembering. That was how his childhood had begun to reset itself in his mind since he got out of Nam. Frothing and chocolate browns, like his mother's cakes and his father's eyes. Warm, wry, laughing, feisty. Innocent.

"He called us the best hangover a guy ever had."

And that was the truth, God honest...through of 'course...

His head ducked, his mouth thinned.

It had never been a secret on the Eastside of Tulsa that the Curtis boys were some of the lucky ones -their stomachs had never known hunger, save for when they were purposely sent to bed without dinner. And they only knew their father's belt on the sole occasion when their fists flew at either each other, or at someone who didn't honestly deserve it (bare hand spankings were reserved for when they disrespected their mother). And while it sure didn't tickle, it was their adolescent, cock-sure pride that got whipped worse than their bottoms. Always.

But that didn't mean there weren't days in the year when they knew to avoid their sire at all costs. Their mother would give the hint to become scarce for the day, but Darry and Soda eventually learned the signs for themselves...Pony hadn't, cause he didn't really remember, he been too little at the time when Dad been at his worse, his lowest...it would start about a week beforehand -sheer restlessness in the dead of night, Dad tossin' and turnin' like a soul in the flames of purgatory; muttering denials and threats at absent foes. While their mother knelt over him like an icon of grace, one hand on his shoulder, the other on his brow, attempting to soothe him into stillness.

Sometimes it worked. Sometimes it didn't. Depended on how close it was to the Bad Days.

Soda could still name 'em like clockwork. June sixth. The nineteenth of December. April Twenty-Third. The first two grew to be self-explanatory, once they were old enough to...to begin to understand. The third had been the worst. And a mystery.

_Had_ been, that is.

It had also been a mystery why, one winter's day, they'd come in from playing in the frozen water; Soda and his brothers had carelessly dropped their soaked laundry in a limp pile of kiddie clothes, laughing and horsing around...but it made their father turn chalk-white when he saw it laying there, hand cracking on the doorframe till Ponyboy started to cry with confused distress, snapping him out of it in remorse.

_Easy, Pony. Easy honey,_ had gone his voice, so soft, a raspy hum, as he picked Pony up in one cradling arm -Dad had never held back in affection, giving it out freely, in the most liberal of alms for those he loved._ Ah ain't mad at you hon, Ah promise. Ya ain't done nothin' wrong._

His hand would be reaching out then, brushing over the hair of his older boys, carding through dawn and dusky tresses, allowing them into the wild strength of his presence, absolved and forgiven._ None of ya have._

And let's not forget the famous Pen Incident...even Pony remembered_ that_ one.

* * *

O*T*M

_The numbers were smooth and uneven along Darry's forearm, Debbie More's black pen having traced a tiny ink-filled heart at the end. Darry's grin was smug as he proudly showed it off in the golden kitchen light to his brothers and his mother.  
_

_Darry was so giddy -a word Soda never would've thought could belong to his brother- he even let eight-year-old Ponyboy trace his finger along the neatly printed line._

_"Did it hurt?" he asked, eyes round with wondering._

_Darry gave a laughing snort and ruffled Pony's head, still grinning, boasting. Even if he rolled his eyes._

_"Corse not, Pone, it ain't a tattoo," he drawled out with the air of a know-it-all he would despise in his youngest brother, not a decade down the line. Course they didn't know that then. They didn't know anything._

_"So are ya gonna call her?" his mother teased, golden haloed in the lamplight. Darry made to answer when a voice they barely recognized, a voice like iron, came from behind them. Brittle, strangled. _

_"Darrel Shayne Curtis, what in the hell is on your arm boy?"_

_The joy in the room panted to a halt. And in its place strutted confusion came, blank-faced and jolted. Soda jerked, Pony stared, and Mom shot up like a neglectful watcher, green eyes round and mouth open.  
_

_Darry, so normally Dad's best bud in the family, gaped and fumbled as he kept his number stamped arm apart from his body like it was a bar of fire.  
_

_"Uh, it's...Debbie More," he tried to explain, but Dad was long passed the ability to hear 'im. Or anyone, his face bleached that terrible white they'd all come to hate, for how old it made their Superman look. How painfully human. _

_"Get in the kitchen and get that off."_

_Darry stared in disbelief, and just a touch of defiance stroking his features, born from the frustrations of not understanding. _

_"But-" _

_"Now, Darrel," Dad gritted out, hand curled, and slammed in judgment on the counter, in a way not even Darry dared to argue with, as Mom touched his shoulder._

_"Go Darry," her tone bore no argument. "Now."_

* * *

O*T*M

In the present, Soda breathed. Allowed those sad, strange days -rare eclipses of the adult world in their relative childhood safety- to fade back into the shades they were. Shadows of things that had been -and were no more. And never would be again.

Something in his stomach turned, and he shook his head, hoping to rattle the demons spinning their cobwebs there since the War -his war that is. They also spun 'em in his heart -catching sins the way spiders caught flies. Ravenous, hungry. Never leaving.

"I mean...it was hard...sometimes," Soda said carefully, fingers tugging on the hole in his dog tags, his St. Micheal's medal. "Especially early on. What you say he saw...I don't...it did get better..."

He glanced down at his knee, seeing it covered in army trousers, dirt, and Nam's blood.

"But from personal experience, I don't think they ever really left 'im," he confessed. Low, almost shamefully.

"...No, it does not," Mr. Pop murmured softly, sadly. "Such is the price, for they who survive. Not even angels escape."

Now his eyes distent, seeing something years and oceans away.

"Or even those they reached out and save."

* * *

O*T*M

_Further, into this hell, Dare spotted a man sitting (collapsed) against one of the fence posts, behind the line of smoking wooden huts that jut out like tombstones from the scorched earth. His narrow frame avoiding the sharp wire that lay across it, but only just. He was dead, star on his chest, like most occupants of this horror, having been starved for more than just freedom. But unlike the rest of the broken faces in the grey sea, there was no sadness on his beige and bony face. Instead, there lay a small smile on his dried lips. Eyes closed and head back against the wooden post, opened in hope of the silver tarnished sky. _

_Joy apparently could kill. _

_And in his lap was a smaller soul, a child, water he couldn't afford to lose dripping from his eyes. _

_Before he saw those tear marks, Dare assumed he was dead like the others, and nearly dropped his m1 when opened eyes proved him wrong._

_"Joe, get over here!" he hollered for the medic. "This kid's alive!"_

_It took careful work to pry the kid out of his cradle of dead arms, and Darry's never seen more delicate hands, gray skin over bone. Or larger, more astonished eyes. _

_Joe's eyes continued to betray his horrifying thoughts, running away with the wind, as he settled the boy against Dare and fished for his canteen.  
"Herr Doktor?" child questioned, trying to recapture the soldier's attention.  
"No, hon," Dare answered, thinking of Molly, and the baby he hadn't seen yet, a million miles away from this. _

_"Not a Doctor, just a Medic." _

_ To stop him from talking, he focused on giving him the water, the way the German war machine had so far denied him the chance to give his own son a bottle.  
"Ja. Doktor." __He pointed to Joe's arm, the sleeve of his own falling downward to show sickly blue numbers stabbed across it. He tapped his finger on the spot where a white band adorned with the Red Cross rested on Joe's bicep.  
The badge of respect on one arm and the symbol of disdain on another. Both on the left. By the heart._

* * *

_Sorry, the update took so long.I hope you enjoyed it!_


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